Master Martin, due to unforeseen electrical difficulties at Chez J, came once more to adorn my lounge-room floor this weekend. So, having no comestibles to offer my guest, we went out to eat on Sunday night, to a Belgium restaurant known as Belgo.
I would highly recommend the experience to anyone. The food was good and so filling I couldn’t finish it (I had wild boar and sausages with mashed potatoes – yum!). However the highlight was, for me, the beer. Now this is not a statement I would usually be comfortable in making. I like but do not adore most beers but this was different. This was fruit beer.
Martin had banana and I had apple, and they were both delicious and much too easy to drink. Mine was, and yet was not, like cider. Not at all bitter, very smooth and without that ‘fake’ apple taste. It was a drink that you could believe had real apples in it. If Martin had not had a rather large evening the night before, I think I would have quite happily continued sampling their wears.
I am now really looking forward to going to Belgium in November, just to try more beer… very strange.
Sunday 30 September 2007
Friday 28 September 2007
My first care package
I received my first care package today. Mum sent me much needed supplies of Irish Breakfast Tea and cold-defeating vitamins. But when I picked it up from the post office, the lady there gave me the strangest look… my package you see was absolutely coated in stamps of various Australian animals… 43 of them to be precise.
Now I spoke to mum and apparently this wasn’t her doing. However, the ladies at her local PO know her well and knew that this package was going to her overseas-and-a-long-way-from-home daughter. So without consulting her they seem to have decided that it would be nice to decorate the box in the appropriately Australian manner with lots of reminders of home to cheer me up.
It certainly had me grinning my head off and chortling at inappropriate moments all the way home. I’ve never received a parcel quite like it before. Thank you ladies!
The Scottish Play with a Stewart
Last night, being Thursday the 27th of September, our theatre guru Mr Standing organised a trip to the Gielgud Theatre, to see William Shakespeare's Macbeth staring Patrick Stewart.
It was an interesting interpretation. Stark and very grim, set in a quazi WWI era, with most of the cast in the woollen military uniforms of that time and the witches dressed as nurses to match. It had a relatively bare stage very reminiscent of a bunker, with off-white brick walls that allowed imagery to be played across them, including swirling blood at times which was very effective. The sound effects were very threatening, being a lot of gun shots and sounds of battle, and the sets consisted of hospital gurneys transformed from bed to table and back to beds at appropriate moments. There was a lot of reuse of set pieces for different purposes and recurring imagery as you’d expect – the focus on knives being one of them of course. I especially liked the way that the witches first acted as nurses, then turned up in the kitchen preparing the meat for the feast and then were morgue attendants. Very effective.
Michael Feast as Macduff, although he started slow, really came through for me – I felt with him when he discovered his family had died, and the moment he brought in Macbeth’s head… Whoooeee! Martin Turner as Banquo was also really good as the upright man, and when he stalked along the table at the feast and stood over Macbeth with his shirt all soaked in blood I absolutely squirmed with glee! And Scott Handy as young Malcolm was very impressive too when his big moment came. I’d seen him in A Knights Tale, so his face was familiar, but I was very impressed with his containment at the beginning of the play and his deception of Macduff at their second meeting. Kate Fleetwood as Lady Macbeth was… bloodthirsty. You could feel the ambition dripping off her. She was truly creepy at times. And Patrick… what can I say? The way he moved about the stage kept your eyes fixed on him. He had a real presence, and really looked the part of the soldier in comparison to the other nobles.
All up…well, I adore Shakespeare no matter what, but whilst I admit that Macbeth isn’t one of my all time favourites, I enjoyed every minute of this production. Thank you J!
It was an interesting interpretation. Stark and very grim, set in a quazi WWI era, with most of the cast in the woollen military uniforms of that time and the witches dressed as nurses to match. It had a relatively bare stage very reminiscent of a bunker, with off-white brick walls that allowed imagery to be played across them, including swirling blood at times which was very effective. The sound effects were very threatening, being a lot of gun shots and sounds of battle, and the sets consisted of hospital gurneys transformed from bed to table and back to beds at appropriate moments. There was a lot of reuse of set pieces for different purposes and recurring imagery as you’d expect – the focus on knives being one of them of course. I especially liked the way that the witches first acted as nurses, then turned up in the kitchen preparing the meat for the feast and then were morgue attendants. Very effective.
Michael Feast as Macduff, although he started slow, really came through for me – I felt with him when he discovered his family had died, and the moment he brought in Macbeth’s head… Whoooeee! Martin Turner as Banquo was also really good as the upright man, and when he stalked along the table at the feast and stood over Macbeth with his shirt all soaked in blood I absolutely squirmed with glee! And Scott Handy as young Malcolm was very impressive too when his big moment came. I’d seen him in A Knights Tale, so his face was familiar, but I was very impressed with his containment at the beginning of the play and his deception of Macduff at their second meeting. Kate Fleetwood as Lady Macbeth was… bloodthirsty. You could feel the ambition dripping off her. She was truly creepy at times. And Patrick… what can I say? The way he moved about the stage kept your eyes fixed on him. He had a real presence, and really looked the part of the soldier in comparison to the other nobles.
All up…well, I adore Shakespeare no matter what, but whilst I admit that Macbeth isn’t one of my all time favourites, I enjoyed every minute of this production. Thank you J!
Sunday 23 September 2007
Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow
Yesterday, I joined a gym. I was a tad enthusiastic in my first session. I now hurt. A lot.
No pain, no gain.... and no brains. Was going to go on a bike ride with Richard and Hilary - it aint happening, no way no how. I'm currently finding it difficult to walk, let alone ride.
ouch. :s
No pain, no gain.... and no brains. Was going to go on a bike ride with Richard and Hilary - it aint happening, no way no how. I'm currently finding it difficult to walk, let alone ride.
ouch. :s
Thursday 20 September 2007
A little Steak with your Salsa Ma’am?
Jane and I went Salsa dancing again last night. And this time I remembered to eat before hand. I went to one of the Angus Steak Houses that seem to proliferate in this city and had a steak salad. It was a good steak too, the kind that melts in your mouth, although it was a bit overpriced I thought. I think I’ll try for a counter meal at one of the local pubs next time – and eating meat made a LOT of difference to my energy level at the end of the night I can tell you. I didn’t feel drained like last time.
The dancing was not quite as fun as last week though. There were about 20 people in the class as compared to the 6 previously so it went a lot slower and we didn’t learn as much. On the up side, the new shoes worked perfectly and today my feet don’t hurt. For that alone, they were well worth the £60 I paid for them! And we will be going again. It is good fun and I get exercise without feeling like I’m exercising – what’s not to love?
Now I just have to remember all the steps!
The dancing was not quite as fun as last week though. There were about 20 people in the class as compared to the 6 previously so it went a lot slower and we didn’t learn as much. On the up side, the new shoes worked perfectly and today my feet don’t hurt. For that alone, they were well worth the £60 I paid for them! And we will be going again. It is good fun and I get exercise without feeling like I’m exercising – what’s not to love?
Now I just have to remember all the steps!
Tuesday 18 September 2007
A Trip Down Memory Lane
I really enjoyed going to the Salsa club last week – except for one thing. My feet. They hurt afterwards. No, they more than hurt, I was in a kind of isolated foot agony for days, and this restricted my enjoyment of the Brighton foreshore as they were still very painful right up until yesterday. None of the shoes I brought from Australia were really designed for dancing in and so my choice was limited to start with and obviously I chose wrong.
So last week I went looking for new shoes. I tried all the cheap stores, then the less cheap stores, and then all the expensive stores and finally came to one conclusion: if I was to find a pair of shoes that would a) survive a single night of dancing b) have a smooth enough sole to actually be danceable in and c) not kill my feet, then I would not find them in an ordinary shoe shop. So there was only one choice. I had to buy actual ballroom shoes. They are designed to be danced in, are built to withstand everything a dancer could throw at them and have the added advantage of being relatively comfortable. And they last forever. If I should decide to give up dancing after only a few weeks (which is not inconceivable), I can have them re-soled and they can then become excellent work / going out shoes that last forever. Ballroom shoes have suede soles you see – the easier to glide around in. I bought a pair of Character shoes for Gang Show as my ‘stage’ shoes and had them re-soled (I was never a dancer in the show), and used them for seven or eight seasons, and then for work, and I still have them back home. And they still look relatively new.
Anyway, having decided to buy real dancing shoes, I went looking for a shop to buy them from. Now, the West End being one of the homes of theatre, you’d think that finding a shop selling dancing shoes would be relatively easy. Not so. I may have been looking in the wrong place, but I only found two, and one had been turned into a web-only affair… the which I discovered after walking around looking for the shop for half an hour and then trying the phone number which had been disconnected. And I didn’t find the other shop on my first pass either. Bloody Stupid London Street Numbering - St Martins Lane has, if you please, numbers that go up on one side and then cross over and continue to go up down the other side. Number 94 is opposite 40 something. Bah!
But I did eventually find it. A place called ‘Freed of London’. A store specifically geared towards the dancing community, selling myriad ballet shoes, ballet costumes and dancing accessories. My first impression? It was very intimidating. The shop itself was austere and hushed, with deep-green real leather seats for the patrons, mahogany fixtures and luxurious carpet. There were pictures of famous ballet dancers on every wall and you can bet that they actually did shop there. A svelte dancer with an aloof air deigned to serve me. She was very foreign and very beautiful. And here I am broad and chubby. But I found a pair I liked, in the one small area of the shop designated to casual ballroom shoes, and I managed to try them on – I stuck a rod to my backbone and told myself I had just as much right to be here as anyone – only to discover they didn’t have the shoe in my size. So I got them to order a pair and made a hasty exit.
Today I went back to try on the new pair and had quite a different experience. But first to a little history; from the age of about 8 to about 11, I learnt ballet. My mum studied it for years, and I thought it very romantic – ballet dancers are so graceful and so beautiful – until I grew to size C cup and found it all horribly embarrassing. And at age 11, when you’re the only one in your class who is an early bloomer, it can be absolutely awful – children can be so very crewel. So I stopped. But for all that, I still found it very romantic. And until I ‘matured’, I really enjoyed it. I especially loved dressing up in a fancy costume, putting on layers of pancake and makeup and going out on stage and dancing in an actual production.
When I first joined the class, I liked my teal leotard and chiffon skirt, but looked longingly at the older girls who were allowed to wear pink, and I was ever so proud when I graduated to a pink leotard and skirt in my final year. But what I wanted most of all was to learn Character dancing. With their black skirts with bright ribbon piping, black classy shoes and black leotards, the Character girls could out-suave everyone in my eyes. I was over the moon when I got an actual Character skirt! I loved twirling around in that skirt, making the ribbons flicker and creating a 360 degree fan of material. I never got to wear the shoes or the leotard at that age, but made up for that later by buying the shoes for GS. I think I always secretly hoped that one year I’d get to dance on the stage again.
Anyway, going into that shop today, I felt like I was back in the ballet world and a member of the dancing community again. The lady who was helping me asked me to do a demi-point with my feet, assuming I’d know what that was – and I did! And I asked for a wire brush to look after the suede and she made me promise to clean my shoes after every class, because so many dancers forgot – as if I was a dancer! And this time I looked around, and remembered what it was like to be in a shop like that, buying ballet shoes and the ribbons separately and then sewing them on later, binding them on my feet in the correct fashion, stepping into the resin box at class and crunching around to make sure I had some grip. And there were teal and pink leotards and little chiffon skirts, exactly like the one’s I used to wear to class, along with the extra thick tights which didn’t hole so easily. And I saw a character skirt – I couldn’t resist touching it, and I know I smiled, and one of the other girls smiled too and said ‘Oh yes, the old character skirt. I remember that too.’ It was a moment of shared companionship, shared understanding.
I remembered how to stand correctly in that shop and I stood tall – I used to have good posture. And I walked tall all the way back to work. It was a lovely feeling.
So last week I went looking for new shoes. I tried all the cheap stores, then the less cheap stores, and then all the expensive stores and finally came to one conclusion: if I was to find a pair of shoes that would a) survive a single night of dancing b) have a smooth enough sole to actually be danceable in and c) not kill my feet, then I would not find them in an ordinary shoe shop. So there was only one choice. I had to buy actual ballroom shoes. They are designed to be danced in, are built to withstand everything a dancer could throw at them and have the added advantage of being relatively comfortable. And they last forever. If I should decide to give up dancing after only a few weeks (which is not inconceivable), I can have them re-soled and they can then become excellent work / going out shoes that last forever. Ballroom shoes have suede soles you see – the easier to glide around in. I bought a pair of Character shoes for Gang Show as my ‘stage’ shoes and had them re-soled (I was never a dancer in the show), and used them for seven or eight seasons, and then for work, and I still have them back home. And they still look relatively new.
Anyway, having decided to buy real dancing shoes, I went looking for a shop to buy them from. Now, the West End being one of the homes of theatre, you’d think that finding a shop selling dancing shoes would be relatively easy. Not so. I may have been looking in the wrong place, but I only found two, and one had been turned into a web-only affair… the which I discovered after walking around looking for the shop for half an hour and then trying the phone number which had been disconnected. And I didn’t find the other shop on my first pass either. Bloody Stupid London Street Numbering - St Martins Lane has, if you please, numbers that go up on one side and then cross over and continue to go up down the other side. Number 94 is opposite 40 something. Bah!
But I did eventually find it. A place called ‘Freed of London’. A store specifically geared towards the dancing community, selling myriad ballet shoes, ballet costumes and dancing accessories. My first impression? It was very intimidating. The shop itself was austere and hushed, with deep-green real leather seats for the patrons, mahogany fixtures and luxurious carpet. There were pictures of famous ballet dancers on every wall and you can bet that they actually did shop there. A svelte dancer with an aloof air deigned to serve me. She was very foreign and very beautiful. And here I am broad and chubby. But I found a pair I liked, in the one small area of the shop designated to casual ballroom shoes, and I managed to try them on – I stuck a rod to my backbone and told myself I had just as much right to be here as anyone – only to discover they didn’t have the shoe in my size. So I got them to order a pair and made a hasty exit.
Today I went back to try on the new pair and had quite a different experience. But first to a little history; from the age of about 8 to about 11, I learnt ballet. My mum studied it for years, and I thought it very romantic – ballet dancers are so graceful and so beautiful – until I grew to size C cup and found it all horribly embarrassing. And at age 11, when you’re the only one in your class who is an early bloomer, it can be absolutely awful – children can be so very crewel. So I stopped. But for all that, I still found it very romantic. And until I ‘matured’, I really enjoyed it. I especially loved dressing up in a fancy costume, putting on layers of pancake and makeup and going out on stage and dancing in an actual production.
When I first joined the class, I liked my teal leotard and chiffon skirt, but looked longingly at the older girls who were allowed to wear pink, and I was ever so proud when I graduated to a pink leotard and skirt in my final year. But what I wanted most of all was to learn Character dancing. With their black skirts with bright ribbon piping, black classy shoes and black leotards, the Character girls could out-suave everyone in my eyes. I was over the moon when I got an actual Character skirt! I loved twirling around in that skirt, making the ribbons flicker and creating a 360 degree fan of material. I never got to wear the shoes or the leotard at that age, but made up for that later by buying the shoes for GS. I think I always secretly hoped that one year I’d get to dance on the stage again.
Anyway, going into that shop today, I felt like I was back in the ballet world and a member of the dancing community again. The lady who was helping me asked me to do a demi-point with my feet, assuming I’d know what that was – and I did! And I asked for a wire brush to look after the suede and she made me promise to clean my shoes after every class, because so many dancers forgot – as if I was a dancer! And this time I looked around, and remembered what it was like to be in a shop like that, buying ballet shoes and the ribbons separately and then sewing them on later, binding them on my feet in the correct fashion, stepping into the resin box at class and crunching around to make sure I had some grip. And there were teal and pink leotards and little chiffon skirts, exactly like the one’s I used to wear to class, along with the extra thick tights which didn’t hole so easily. And I saw a character skirt – I couldn’t resist touching it, and I know I smiled, and one of the other girls smiled too and said ‘Oh yes, the old character skirt. I remember that too.’ It was a moment of shared companionship, shared understanding.
I remembered how to stand correctly in that shop and I stood tall – I used to have good posture. And I walked tall all the way back to work. It was a lovely feeling.
Sunday 16 September 2007
A random day at Brighton
Now, I’ve been meaning to go down to Brighton – to get out of London at least – for the last month or so. Every weekend I’ve said I’d go, and then something else would come up or I was sick or otherwise incapacitated. So this weekend I, yet again, decided to go. But this time I made it.
As Marty was going to be staying with me over the weekend, when I saw him on Thursday I asked: ‘Would you like to come to Brighton with me on Saturday?’ and he said ‘Why not!’ So I invited Andrew along, as he too kept saying he’d like to go, and he said ‘Why not!’ and so we successfully managed to meet at the gate to platform 5 at Victoria station at approximately 1030 on Saturday morning and buy our tickets and get on the train…. But that was actually as far as our planning went.
I had only a vague idea of what you could do at Brighton. There was the Royal Pavilion and the Brighton Pier that I knew of, but beyond that I had no clue. And it turned out that Saturday was Martin’s Birthday (oops... I knew that. Honest. Well, most years I remember, but I’ve been kinda busy lately!), so there was a little added pressure to make sure that the day wasn’t a total loss, and consequently it was with a feeling of mild trepidation that I exited the train at the Brighton Station. I needn’t have worried. It was a lovely day, a little random due to the general air of vagueness that surrounded all of us, but we managed to fill in the time somehow.
It was lovely weather. Warm enough to ware shorts actually and I ended up getting a tan line from my watch. We walked down to the sea and along the beach…which is not a beach as I know it. There is no sand, only pebbles, and they crunch as you walk along. I went for a short paddle in the channel, but that was all I could handle – the stones hurt your feet!! The water wasn’t too warm either.
Then we walked along Brighton Pier for Time the First. It is amazingly tacky. Its a permanent mini-show grounds with roller coasters and dodgem cars and side-show alley games that win you teddy bears and fairy floss and toffee apple… only this is an adult version, so you can gable in the arcades and there is a pub on site. It is tacky heaped on kitsch with more than a dash of cringe.
We had fish and chips on the pier for lunch which was good, and we promised ourselves to come back for Donuts for Martin and Fairy Floss for Andrew but I couldn’t be bothered waiting so I bought 4 sticks of Brighton Rock… to share! Honest!!
So off we wandered; we no idea where we were going, but discovered a lovely fountain on the way there.
Then we found the Royal Pavilion which is a party residence established by the Prince Regent back in the 1800s I think. I was amazed at the architecture. It’s Indian on the outside but very influenced by China on the inside. We weren’t allowed to take pictures, and there were people standing around everywhere to make sure you didn’t, but boy I wish I could have. Spectacular doesn’t do it justice. It was amazingly decadent, and sumptuous, and awe-inspiring – especially the banquet hall and the music room. There were dragons everywhere. It was luxurious, extravagant, opulent, and over the top. The splendour is completely underrepresented by the photos available on the web. It really has to be seen to be believed. The dragon holding up the chandelier – well the damn thing is five or six feet long, and the detail... I really am lost for words.
So, onwards and outwards to a cafe in The Lanes to refuel Рand a cr̬me brule that was a little hard on my nerves Рit came in a ceramic bowl which put my teeth on edge every time I scraped my spoon across it. But the English Breakfast tea with lemon and honey was very nice.
Then we went back to the pier for Time the Second. This time, Andrew and I went on one of the rides – just to say we’d gone on a tacky ride really – called the Turbo something. It was a rollercoaster and it went very fast, and upside down and sideways… and it took less time from start to finish than it took for me to write this sentence. And then we had a couple of drinks at Horatio’s bar on the Pier, because it was a pub on a pier, and because it was Martins birthday. And Andrew finally got his fairy floss but Martin declined his donuts… then it was getting cold so we moved on.
So then we went to a bar called the Sussex (because this was the name of the Gang Show after-rehearsal bar for the entire time I was there) for a drink and some dinner – but they’d stopped serving food. So we went to another bar and they’d stopped serving food too, and onto a third and three strikes and we’re out. So we went to an Italian pizza place. Nice pizza but Martin had the smallest glass of Guinness I’ve ever seen. He wasn’t very impressed.
After than, we went back to the pier for Time the Third to take night photos.
By then it was getting quite cold so we started the trek home, stopping by yet another bar for a drink on their upstairs outdoor balcony – amazing how these things sprang up just after the ban on smoking.
By which time we were totally exhausted but surprisingly not inebriated so took the next train home.
As Marty was going to be staying with me over the weekend, when I saw him on Thursday I asked: ‘Would you like to come to Brighton with me on Saturday?’ and he said ‘Why not!’ So I invited Andrew along, as he too kept saying he’d like to go, and he said ‘Why not!’ and so we successfully managed to meet at the gate to platform 5 at Victoria station at approximately 1030 on Saturday morning and buy our tickets and get on the train…. But that was actually as far as our planning went.
I had only a vague idea of what you could do at Brighton. There was the Royal Pavilion and the Brighton Pier that I knew of, but beyond that I had no clue. And it turned out that Saturday was Martin’s Birthday (oops... I knew that. Honest. Well, most years I remember, but I’ve been kinda busy lately!), so there was a little added pressure to make sure that the day wasn’t a total loss, and consequently it was with a feeling of mild trepidation that I exited the train at the Brighton Station. I needn’t have worried. It was a lovely day, a little random due to the general air of vagueness that surrounded all of us, but we managed to fill in the time somehow.
It was lovely weather. Warm enough to ware shorts actually and I ended up getting a tan line from my watch. We walked down to the sea and along the beach…which is not a beach as I know it. There is no sand, only pebbles, and they crunch as you walk along. I went for a short paddle in the channel, but that was all I could handle – the stones hurt your feet!! The water wasn’t too warm either.
Then we walked along Brighton Pier for Time the First. It is amazingly tacky. Its a permanent mini-show grounds with roller coasters and dodgem cars and side-show alley games that win you teddy bears and fairy floss and toffee apple… only this is an adult version, so you can gable in the arcades and there is a pub on site. It is tacky heaped on kitsch with more than a dash of cringe.
We had fish and chips on the pier for lunch which was good, and we promised ourselves to come back for Donuts for Martin and Fairy Floss for Andrew but I couldn’t be bothered waiting so I bought 4 sticks of Brighton Rock… to share! Honest!!
So off we wandered; we no idea where we were going, but discovered a lovely fountain on the way there.
Then we found the Royal Pavilion which is a party residence established by the Prince Regent back in the 1800s I think. I was amazed at the architecture. It’s Indian on the outside but very influenced by China on the inside. We weren’t allowed to take pictures, and there were people standing around everywhere to make sure you didn’t, but boy I wish I could have. Spectacular doesn’t do it justice. It was amazingly decadent, and sumptuous, and awe-inspiring – especially the banquet hall and the music room. There were dragons everywhere. It was luxurious, extravagant, opulent, and over the top. The splendour is completely underrepresented by the photos available on the web. It really has to be seen to be believed. The dragon holding up the chandelier – well the damn thing is five or six feet long, and the detail... I really am lost for words.
So, onwards and outwards to a cafe in The Lanes to refuel Рand a cr̬me brule that was a little hard on my nerves Рit came in a ceramic bowl which put my teeth on edge every time I scraped my spoon across it. But the English Breakfast tea with lemon and honey was very nice.
Then we went back to the pier for Time the Second. This time, Andrew and I went on one of the rides – just to say we’d gone on a tacky ride really – called the Turbo something. It was a rollercoaster and it went very fast, and upside down and sideways… and it took less time from start to finish than it took for me to write this sentence. And then we had a couple of drinks at Horatio’s bar on the Pier, because it was a pub on a pier, and because it was Martins birthday. And Andrew finally got his fairy floss but Martin declined his donuts… then it was getting cold so we moved on.
So then we went to a bar called the Sussex (because this was the name of the Gang Show after-rehearsal bar for the entire time I was there) for a drink and some dinner – but they’d stopped serving food. So we went to another bar and they’d stopped serving food too, and onto a third and three strikes and we’re out. So we went to an Italian pizza place. Nice pizza but Martin had the smallest glass of Guinness I’ve ever seen. He wasn’t very impressed.
After than, we went back to the pier for Time the Third to take night photos.
By then it was getting quite cold so we started the trek home, stopping by yet another bar for a drink on their upstairs outdoor balcony – amazing how these things sprang up just after the ban on smoking.
By which time we were totally exhausted but surprisingly not inebriated so took the next train home.
Adelaideans at The Adelaide on Adelaide
Our good friend Martin has recently joined the South Austrlian Antipodeans’ invasion of Britain. It's not a permanent move as he’s only here for a three week stint but increasingly I have more friends over this side of the world than that.
Anyway, to welcome him to these shores Jason organised an evening of drinks. So, on Thursday last, a bunch of Adelaideans, namely Jason, Martin, Richard, Sean and I, plus one English ring-in, met at a pub called The Adelaide… on Adelaide Road no less.
True Story
And I’ve now written Adelaide so many times it looks wrong.
Anyway, to welcome him to these shores Jason organised an evening of drinks. So, on Thursday last, a bunch of Adelaideans, namely Jason, Martin, Richard, Sean and I, plus one English ring-in, met at a pub called The Adelaide… on Adelaide Road no less.
True Story
And I’ve now written Adelaide so many times it looks wrong.
Thursday 13 September 2007
Not quite 'Wiggle Wiggle' more like 'Wobble Wobble'
In trying to keep my promise of saying ‘yes’ to new experiences and in the spirit of trying new things, I accompanied Jane to a Salsa class last night.
But first, I had to ruin any chance of being on the positive side of healthy by consuming something bad for me, so Jane introduced me to a delectable chain of French patisseries called Paul before the class. I had a flan and a mocha coffee and Oh My Lord it was heavenly! Highly recommend the place to all and sundry and will be going back to / into any of these shops I see. Yum!
Now, at the outset, I was a little dubious of the salsa class. It was located below a nearly empty restaurant (never a good thing in Soho), in a room that had dark wood-panelled walls and red vinyl bench-seating everywhere. The floor looked nothing like a dance floor and had seen many better days, and there was a bar in one corner with garish neon signs that flickered spasmodically. It was dim and dingy and resembled a seedy club rather than a dance studio. We got there early too – our first mistake – and so had to wait around, becoming more and more nervous with every passing minute. And it started late, which didn’t help.
But when it did start – wowwhee! It was really fun!
I learnt a lot. They teach the New York Style of salsa which has a lot of cross-body moves… apparently. It wasn’t too hard to get the steps right and these were relatively quickly mastered by both Jane and me, but the correct location of our knees, hips and arms was a lot more problematical. And the turns had my head spinning – I’ve forgotten how to ‘spot’ myself on a turn and trying to do that and turn at the same time… well, I staggered around quite a bit. I also couldn’t get my hips moving properly – too embarrassed I think. As Jane said, it was more of a wobble wobble than the wiggle wiggle our teacher was trying to get us to do.
We were in the absolute beginner’s class which was composed of five girls and one poor beleaguered guy but there was an intermediate class going on next door and they were having a lot of fun – and there were just as many guys as girls in there.
I was impressed with my own stamina actually, as I didn’t flake at all, and only started to get tired near the end of the hour lesson. But my feet and calves are now killing me and my knees are not quite sure what they think about the whole exercise. I believe we’ll be going back though, so I now have to practice my mambo, rumba, core-step, open step, suzie-q, side step, pop, body roles and right and left turns.
Should be interesting.
But first, I had to ruin any chance of being on the positive side of healthy by consuming something bad for me, so Jane introduced me to a delectable chain of French patisseries called Paul before the class. I had a flan and a mocha coffee and Oh My Lord it was heavenly! Highly recommend the place to all and sundry and will be going back to / into any of these shops I see. Yum!
Now, at the outset, I was a little dubious of the salsa class. It was located below a nearly empty restaurant (never a good thing in Soho), in a room that had dark wood-panelled walls and red vinyl bench-seating everywhere. The floor looked nothing like a dance floor and had seen many better days, and there was a bar in one corner with garish neon signs that flickered spasmodically. It was dim and dingy and resembled a seedy club rather than a dance studio. We got there early too – our first mistake – and so had to wait around, becoming more and more nervous with every passing minute. And it started late, which didn’t help.
But when it did start – wowwhee! It was really fun!
I learnt a lot. They teach the New York Style of salsa which has a lot of cross-body moves… apparently. It wasn’t too hard to get the steps right and these were relatively quickly mastered by both Jane and me, but the correct location of our knees, hips and arms was a lot more problematical. And the turns had my head spinning – I’ve forgotten how to ‘spot’ myself on a turn and trying to do that and turn at the same time… well, I staggered around quite a bit. I also couldn’t get my hips moving properly – too embarrassed I think. As Jane said, it was more of a wobble wobble than the wiggle wiggle our teacher was trying to get us to do.
We were in the absolute beginner’s class which was composed of five girls and one poor beleaguered guy but there was an intermediate class going on next door and they were having a lot of fun – and there were just as many guys as girls in there.
I was impressed with my own stamina actually, as I didn’t flake at all, and only started to get tired near the end of the hour lesson. But my feet and calves are now killing me and my knees are not quite sure what they think about the whole exercise. I believe we’ll be going back though, so I now have to practice my mambo, rumba, core-step, open step, suzie-q, side step, pop, body roles and right and left turns.
Should be interesting.
Wednesday 12 September 2007
A day full of misery
My backside is sore from the number of times that I kicked myself yesterday. I knew that this whole experience was going to be much more intense that my previous life had been, and that for every euphoric high that I’d experience, there’d probably be a corresponding low of epic proportions, but I had forgotten this fact in the general enjoyment I’ve been having lately. Well, yesterday I hit a rather large stumbling block and ended up drowning in my own misery.
First I stuffed up at work. Now I don’t usually get that upset with myself about an honest mistake. I just apologise and fix it and move on. But this was a rush job, and I didn’t pay as much attention to it as I probably should have. It wasn’t a huge error, looking back at it now, but at the time I decided it was Karmic Retribution for my over-confidence of late and that it was the Biggest Disaster to Ever Happen To Me! I kicked myself soundly for a least an hour until I fixed the problem, and was forgiven for it by my lovely boss, but I felt as rotten as I could possibly feel. And it lasted all day. Everything I did thereafter went wrong. My programming failed, my numbers didn’t add up and my computer kept falling over. Something was out to get me. It just wasn’t my day.
I was so miserable, that I decided to go to the one location that always makes me feel better – a bookshop. I always feel very safe and at peace in a bookstore. There’s something about the way that the noises of the world disappear as you wander into a maze of shelving and fascinating titles, the hush that books inspire and the aura of quite contemplation, and the smell… that musty smell of libraries and old things… it’s like walking into a lovely memory. This wasn’t just any bookstore either. No, the Waterstones at Piccadilly Circus is the biggest bookstore in Europe and, although Richard had once taken me there after my job interview, I hadn’t recognised the significance of the location and so had neglected to go back. So I purposefully walked in the opposite direction to home to find solace in the biggest bookshop in London.
And it didn’t help.
I bee-lined strait for my favourite section – sci-fi and fantasy – in the hope of finding a particular book – the name of which I still can’t remember because I was startled to find Helen standing not five paces away. And because I was so miserable, and so intent on this book, which I had promptly forgotten the name of, I didn’t really say much, and so she left. It took me about 10 seconds after she’d gone to come to my senses and run after her, but she’d vanished. I tried phoning her, but got no answer. I was doubly annoyed with myself, as I really could have used someone’s shoulder to cry on, so I went up to reference and sat amongst the books on how to write, and cried in a bookshop for the first time I can ever remember. My solace was lost. The one place I’d always found comfort in before, and I was just as miserable in the bookshop as I’d been everywhere else. I sat on a footstool and pretended to read something, facing a corner, feeling like an absolute idiot, and trying not to get the books wet, for about 15 minutes.
It took another two hours and two Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe mysteries, Francis Hodgeson Burnett’s ‘Little Princess’, one of Foster’s Hornblower compendiums and the Neil Gaiman / Terry Pratchett ‘Good Omen’s’ book before I felt even half-way normal, and then I got buyers guilt. But I needed a pick-me-up, and a Pratchett is always a good pick-me-up, but spending two and half hours browsing in a bookshop is an even better one.
By the time I got home, I was so emotionally drained that I couldn’t face anything, and so said a regretful no to a games night at Richard and Hilary’s, earning myself another kick in the butt for saying ‘no’ to something which I’ve promised myself not to do this year, and went to bed… there to lie and think and think because of course I couldn’t sleep. Eventually the sandman came and ended the misery by committing my litany of woe to dreamless oblivion, thank the gods.
Today, I’m fine. Apparently, it was just one of those days.
What a silly girl am I
First I stuffed up at work. Now I don’t usually get that upset with myself about an honest mistake. I just apologise and fix it and move on. But this was a rush job, and I didn’t pay as much attention to it as I probably should have. It wasn’t a huge error, looking back at it now, but at the time I decided it was Karmic Retribution for my over-confidence of late and that it was the Biggest Disaster to Ever Happen To Me! I kicked myself soundly for a least an hour until I fixed the problem, and was forgiven for it by my lovely boss, but I felt as rotten as I could possibly feel. And it lasted all day. Everything I did thereafter went wrong. My programming failed, my numbers didn’t add up and my computer kept falling over. Something was out to get me. It just wasn’t my day.
I was so miserable, that I decided to go to the one location that always makes me feel better – a bookshop. I always feel very safe and at peace in a bookstore. There’s something about the way that the noises of the world disappear as you wander into a maze of shelving and fascinating titles, the hush that books inspire and the aura of quite contemplation, and the smell… that musty smell of libraries and old things… it’s like walking into a lovely memory. This wasn’t just any bookstore either. No, the Waterstones at Piccadilly Circus is the biggest bookstore in Europe and, although Richard had once taken me there after my job interview, I hadn’t recognised the significance of the location and so had neglected to go back. So I purposefully walked in the opposite direction to home to find solace in the biggest bookshop in London.
And it didn’t help.
I bee-lined strait for my favourite section – sci-fi and fantasy – in the hope of finding a particular book – the name of which I still can’t remember because I was startled to find Helen standing not five paces away. And because I was so miserable, and so intent on this book, which I had promptly forgotten the name of, I didn’t really say much, and so she left. It took me about 10 seconds after she’d gone to come to my senses and run after her, but she’d vanished. I tried phoning her, but got no answer. I was doubly annoyed with myself, as I really could have used someone’s shoulder to cry on, so I went up to reference and sat amongst the books on how to write, and cried in a bookshop for the first time I can ever remember. My solace was lost. The one place I’d always found comfort in before, and I was just as miserable in the bookshop as I’d been everywhere else. I sat on a footstool and pretended to read something, facing a corner, feeling like an absolute idiot, and trying not to get the books wet, for about 15 minutes.
It took another two hours and two Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe mysteries, Francis Hodgeson Burnett’s ‘Little Princess’, one of Foster’s Hornblower compendiums and the Neil Gaiman / Terry Pratchett ‘Good Omen’s’ book before I felt even half-way normal, and then I got buyers guilt. But I needed a pick-me-up, and a Pratchett is always a good pick-me-up, but spending two and half hours browsing in a bookshop is an even better one.
By the time I got home, I was so emotionally drained that I couldn’t face anything, and so said a regretful no to a games night at Richard and Hilary’s, earning myself another kick in the butt for saying ‘no’ to something which I’ve promised myself not to do this year, and went to bed… there to lie and think and think because of course I couldn’t sleep. Eventually the sandman came and ended the misery by committing my litany of woe to dreamless oblivion, thank the gods.
Today, I’m fine. Apparently, it was just one of those days.
What a silly girl am I
Monday 10 September 2007
Last Night of the Proms - in Hyde Park
Saturday was a lovely day. In the morning I went to Borough Markets and the afternoon saw me at the Last Night of the Proms in the Park – Hyde Park to be precise.
I love the Borough Markets. I love tasting new and strange cheese, discovering new varieties of fruit and vegetables I didn’t know existed and drinking freshly ground coffee from freshly roasted beans. And then there’s the beer and sweets, and meats and breads, and jams and olive oils… and, and, and.
I was blissfully happy just wandering around tasting things. But, being a girl on a mission, I reined in my greed and bought all the essentials for a good picnic, including a roasted chicken, lovely sweet grapes and chocolate brownies for desert. Helen and Richard joined me to supervise and for some additional snack buying.
Then it was back home for me to make the salad, pull apart the chicken and wash the fruit. And then wait. And wait. And wait until Jason turned up. An hour late – but that’s pretty much par for the course with Jase and not much of a surprise. So off we went to Hyde Park.
I couldn’t get tickets to the event in the Royal Albert Hall itself for love or money – they’d all been sold out eons ago and you had to be a subscriber to be eligible to buy them anyway, but I was able to purchase four tickets to the Hyde Park part of it and so took Richard, Jason and Helen along.
It wasn’t quite what I had expected it to be. There was very little classical music for a start – it was more of a family concert, and by the end of the evening there were many, many VERY drunk people around. Even most of the presenters were a little tipsy The English sure know how to put it away! And the fireworks at the end were a total fizzle. I’ve never been to an event where there were so few before.
But these deficiencies were more than made up for, in my opinion, by the extraordinary experience of being one amongst forty thousand standing people, swaying to the music, enthusiastically waving national flags (yes, I took an Australian flag with me) and generally putting every last ounce of passion and energy into singing at the top of their lungs. Along with many other tunes, we sang Rule Britannia, Land of Hope and Glory, Jerusalem and the National Anthem with much verve and vigour. Jason said he’d never seen such patriotism from the Brits before.
I just lapped it all up. I think I was jumping up and down in excitement at one stage and I rang my poor mother and made her listen to the crowd singing Jerusalem. I was ecstatically happy. Drunk on joy, and surprisingly, considering the general tendency, not on alcohol. I added up what I had consumed, and I couldn’t possibly have been even slightly tipsy at the end of the night, but I was most certainly flying as high as a kite!
It was awesome!
Next year, Albert Hall!!
I love the Borough Markets. I love tasting new and strange cheese, discovering new varieties of fruit and vegetables I didn’t know existed and drinking freshly ground coffee from freshly roasted beans. And then there’s the beer and sweets, and meats and breads, and jams and olive oils… and, and, and.
I was blissfully happy just wandering around tasting things. But, being a girl on a mission, I reined in my greed and bought all the essentials for a good picnic, including a roasted chicken, lovely sweet grapes and chocolate brownies for desert. Helen and Richard joined me to supervise and for some additional snack buying.
Then it was back home for me to make the salad, pull apart the chicken and wash the fruit. And then wait. And wait. And wait until Jason turned up. An hour late – but that’s pretty much par for the course with Jase and not much of a surprise. So off we went to Hyde Park.
I couldn’t get tickets to the event in the Royal Albert Hall itself for love or money – they’d all been sold out eons ago and you had to be a subscriber to be eligible to buy them anyway, but I was able to purchase four tickets to the Hyde Park part of it and so took Richard, Jason and Helen along.
It wasn’t quite what I had expected it to be. There was very little classical music for a start – it was more of a family concert, and by the end of the evening there were many, many VERY drunk people around. Even most of the presenters were a little tipsy The English sure know how to put it away! And the fireworks at the end were a total fizzle. I’ve never been to an event where there were so few before.
But these deficiencies were more than made up for, in my opinion, by the extraordinary experience of being one amongst forty thousand standing people, swaying to the music, enthusiastically waving national flags (yes, I took an Australian flag with me) and generally putting every last ounce of passion and energy into singing at the top of their lungs. Along with many other tunes, we sang Rule Britannia, Land of Hope and Glory, Jerusalem and the National Anthem with much verve and vigour. Jason said he’d never seen such patriotism from the Brits before.
I just lapped it all up. I think I was jumping up and down in excitement at one stage and I rang my poor mother and made her listen to the crowd singing Jerusalem. I was ecstatically happy. Drunk on joy, and surprisingly, considering the general tendency, not on alcohol. I added up what I had consumed, and I couldn’t possibly have been even slightly tipsy at the end of the night, but I was most certainly flying as high as a kite!
It was awesome!
Next year, Albert Hall!!
Friday 7 September 2007
The ordinaryness of it all
I find it really bizarre, but I can’t seem to get my head around the fact that I am living in London.
I live in London, UK. The City. The big one. The tourist destination that I have dreamed of visiting all my life. And I live IN it. And it is such a non-event. I can’t process the fact. I keep doing a double-take and thinking “Wow. I’m in London”, because in reality, it’s just like any other city. I could be in Sydney or Melbourne on a cloudy day.
Sure, the variety of accents provides a constant jarring note. You’re never quite sure what vowel and consonant combination will come out of anyone’s mouth. I’ve heard so many varieties of English here it’s astounding, and the weirdest of them are from native English speakers.
But most of the time I only consciously think “Oh, that’s right, I’m in London” when I see an iconic building or a theatre. Normal everyday walking to and from work or getting a sandwich at lunch is so ordinary I could be at home. Then I get this double-take feeling, like someone has just punched me in the stomach or hit me on the head, and I think “Wow!”
So very strange.
I feel very weird about it. The whole thing could be such a non-event if I’m not careful. I’ve got to shake things up a bit I think. Like going overseas and trying new things, maybe even trying a new job just to scare myself or join a dance club or choir or a theatrical troop.
Something darnit. Things feel too ordinary to be this bizarre.
I live in London, UK. The City. The big one. The tourist destination that I have dreamed of visiting all my life. And I live IN it. And it is such a non-event. I can’t process the fact. I keep doing a double-take and thinking “Wow. I’m in London”, because in reality, it’s just like any other city. I could be in Sydney or Melbourne on a cloudy day.
Sure, the variety of accents provides a constant jarring note. You’re never quite sure what vowel and consonant combination will come out of anyone’s mouth. I’ve heard so many varieties of English here it’s astounding, and the weirdest of them are from native English speakers.
But most of the time I only consciously think “Oh, that’s right, I’m in London” when I see an iconic building or a theatre. Normal everyday walking to and from work or getting a sandwich at lunch is so ordinary I could be at home. Then I get this double-take feeling, like someone has just punched me in the stomach or hit me on the head, and I think “Wow!”
So very strange.
I feel very weird about it. The whole thing could be such a non-event if I’m not careful. I’ve got to shake things up a bit I think. Like going overseas and trying new things, maybe even trying a new job just to scare myself or join a dance club or choir or a theatrical troop.
Something darnit. Things feel too ordinary to be this bizarre.
Tuesday 4 September 2007
Two celebrities and a friend
Yesterday was a day for double-takes and is definitely 15 minutes of fame worthy; I saw two celebrities in the flesh and a friend on television!
Celebrity One was Martin Freeman of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy fame. He walked strait past me as I was coming back into work after buying lunch. I think I did a 360 degree circle - and felt very foolish for doing so, but it's the first time I've ever seen a celeb on the street! I was a little star struck for about five minutes. Now, he is English, so I was pretty certain it was actually him, but...
Celebrity Two was Wil Anderson, an Australian comedian of not inconsiderable infamy back home - but I had to do a triple take to make sure it was him, because what on earth would he be doing in London, on Charing Cross Road, with two massive black-garbed coppers at 5 in the afternoon? I have since discovered that he was actually present at the Edinburgh Festival, so it could well have been him. It certainly looked like him, right down to the fingernails coated in black nail polish. But it took me quite a while - in fact all the way home - to convince myself that I had actually seen what I thought I had just seen.
And the friend I saw on TV? Well, that was Mr Jason Standing, and I actually only caught his appearance by complete accident. I had gone to bed and couldn't sleep for some reason, so got up again and started channel flicking - which is really much too easy to do as we've got Sky - lots of channels and nothing to see. But then I landed on BBC3 to saw, to my amazement, Jason wandering around in the background of a shot. The show was titled "My Penis and Everyone Else's" and it was about a guy who thought he had a tiny willy, so he decided to investigate this in detail, and shot a couple of shows about it, and then got together an exhibition of various men's genitalia to start conversation... or something. And Jason just happened to be at the exhibition on the day it opened and so was interviewed by the guy and caught on camera wandering around. So now Jason is famous... for being on a show about knobs. Quite!
Celebrity One was Martin Freeman of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy fame. He walked strait past me as I was coming back into work after buying lunch. I think I did a 360 degree circle - and felt very foolish for doing so, but it's the first time I've ever seen a celeb on the street! I was a little star struck for about five minutes. Now, he is English, so I was pretty certain it was actually him, but...
Celebrity Two was Wil Anderson, an Australian comedian of not inconsiderable infamy back home - but I had to do a triple take to make sure it was him, because what on earth would he be doing in London, on Charing Cross Road, with two massive black-garbed coppers at 5 in the afternoon? I have since discovered that he was actually present at the Edinburgh Festival, so it could well have been him. It certainly looked like him, right down to the fingernails coated in black nail polish. But it took me quite a while - in fact all the way home - to convince myself that I had actually seen what I thought I had just seen.
And the friend I saw on TV? Well, that was Mr Jason Standing, and I actually only caught his appearance by complete accident. I had gone to bed and couldn't sleep for some reason, so got up again and started channel flicking - which is really much too easy to do as we've got Sky - lots of channels and nothing to see. But then I landed on BBC3 to saw, to my amazement, Jason wandering around in the background of a shot. The show was titled "My Penis and Everyone Else's" and it was about a guy who thought he had a tiny willy, so he decided to investigate this in detail, and shot a couple of shows about it, and then got together an exhibition of various men's genitalia to start conversation... or something. And Jason just happened to be at the exhibition on the day it opened and so was interviewed by the guy and caught on camera wandering around. So now Jason is famous... for being on a show about knobs. Quite!
Sunday 2 September 2007
Life with the ants
I spent a rather leisurely Saturday but did actually manage to get out on Sunday. The photos should be up by the time I post this!
I met Helen R at Victoria Station and caught up with her over a coffee - so lovely to see someone from Australia! Then I decided I was going to walk home... it's quite a way. But a mark of my increased level of fitness that I didn't really notice it until I got home.
En route I checked out the Royal Horse Guards, where there were some lovely horses standing guard, some English architecture (Westminster Abbey was closed as it was Sunday, so I took pictures of Albert's Arch and street signs - don't ask me why), Lillywhites department store (which I keep calling Lillyputs in my head and where I managed to pick up two pairs of sneakers for more than 85% off!), and the billboards and the Eros Statue in Piccadilly Circus (the juxtaposition of which always makes me scratch my head).
Then I walked up Regent's street which had been closed off to traffic for a street party. It was an Indian Tourism event and there were all sorts of cultural activities you could do - like eat 5 different kinds of curry, or take pictures in front of Indian landscapes or listen to Indian music - none of which I did. I watched the street performers instead - and they were good!!
It was incredibly strange though - walking up a London street with not a car in sight. I felt dwarfed somehow and very displaced, scurrying amongst a million other people in such an empty space. It was weird. Very interesting, but definitely strange.
I met Helen R at Victoria Station and caught up with her over a coffee - so lovely to see someone from Australia! Then I decided I was going to walk home... it's quite a way. But a mark of my increased level of fitness that I didn't really notice it until I got home.
En route I checked out the Royal Horse Guards, where there were some lovely horses standing guard, some English architecture (Westminster Abbey was closed as it was Sunday, so I took pictures of Albert's Arch and street signs - don't ask me why), Lillywhites department store (which I keep calling Lillyputs in my head and where I managed to pick up two pairs of sneakers for more than 85% off!), and the billboards and the Eros Statue in Piccadilly Circus (the juxtaposition of which always makes me scratch my head).
Then I walked up Regent's street which had been closed off to traffic for a street party. It was an Indian Tourism event and there were all sorts of cultural activities you could do - like eat 5 different kinds of curry, or take pictures in front of Indian landscapes or listen to Indian music - none of which I did. I watched the street performers instead - and they were good!!
It was incredibly strange though - walking up a London street with not a car in sight. I felt dwarfed somehow and very displaced, scurrying amongst a million other people in such an empty space. It was weird. Very interesting, but definitely strange.
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